


Golden

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, During Canon, Kinks, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-13
Updated: 2007-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-06 09:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8744998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Sam. Dean. Sex. Kink. Pain. Handcuffs. Whipping. What more is there to say? Oh yeah, did we mention the sex?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Golden

Summary: Sam. Dean. Sex. Kink. Pain. Handcuffs. Whipping. What more is there to say? Oh yeah, did we mention the sex?

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Length: 3,608

Co-Authors: [](http://amara-m.livejournal.com/profile)[ **amara_m**](http://amara-m.livejournal.com/) & [ ](http://plutogirl10.livejournal.com/profile)[**plutogirl10**](http://plutogirl10.livejournal.com/)

A/N from [ ](http://plutogirl10.livejournal.com/profile)[**plutogirl10**](http://plutogirl10.livejournal.com/): Dear Reader. This fic gets me off. Seriously. I hope you enjoy it too.  (ps. amara you rock!)

A/N from [ ](http://amara-m.livejournal.com/profile)[**amara_m**](http://amara-m.livejournal.com/): This started as just a little PWP, a chance to get into the head of sub!Dean, to see where the dynamics of a D/s relationship would take the boys. Thanks to an incredible co-author and . . . um . . . inspiration . . . it went somewhere else entirely. It’s an incredible thing to see, because even I can’t tell who wrote what anymore . . . and I can’t believe we really wrote this! 

 

Beta thanks to [](http://rayrayfaulks.livejournal.com/profile)[ **rayrayfaulks**](http://rayrayfaulks.livejournal.com/) and [ ](http://missyjack.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://missyjack.livejournal.com/)**missyjack** , OMFG, you guys are the AWESOMEST!!!

 

 

 

***************************  
  
  
 

Dean starts when he hears the sound of a car door closing, then chides himself.  That isn’t the Impala returning.  The sound isn’t the sign of Sam’s return.  He swallows hard and forces his eyes away from the door.  

 

It’s only mid afternoon, and he needs to relax, or the _activities_ Sam has planned for the evening could be more unpleasant for Dean than Sam intends; and if Sam senses he isn’t _all there_ , he’ll stop, safe word or no.  Dean isn’t sure what’s coming, but he knows that once Sammy starts, he’s not going to want him to stop. And if his inability to relax makes Sam stop even if Dean doesn’t use the word…

 

Dean shakes his head and pushes the thought aside.  No point dwelling on it.  It won’t help him relax.  Instead he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, looks around the room.  It is a fairly non-descript, average motel room, in a fairly non-descript, average city, and they had finished their job the day before.  That was when Sam had told him what he had planned for tonight. 

 

Well, not exactly. He’d said they were going to play. That he was going to take this _thing_ between them to the next level. Dean still has no idea what that means. He can’t articulate what it is he wants, what he needs what this thing gives him. The pain makes sense…sort of.  Pain is so much a part of his life, and he’s always liked his sex rough.  But this is something else.  This is something he can’t bring himself to admit; a deep something that he trusts Sam with, even when he can’t trust himself.

 

The familiar purr of his car brings Dean up out of his head, and he looks around again.  He stands, shifting his feet a little.  He isn’t naked yet.  He’s already getting hard, and the car isn’t even idling.  Sam had said he wanted him naked when he came back.  Dean hooks a finger in his boxers and pulls them down, stopping to fold them neatly and set them on his duffle bag on the floor.  Sam likes a tidy room, especially on nights like this.  

 

Dean stands still and puts his hands behind his back, knowing it’s what Sammy wants. He does his best not to stare at the door. The room is dark, a false night, with windows closed, curtains drawn.  This is private, and it is that much more intense, knowing that beyond those curtains, behind that door, the world is awake and people are moving about their daily lives.  When the door finally opens, Sam stands for a moment, silhouetted against the slowly sinking sun, his gasping, appreciative breath making Dean smile.

 

The door closes and Dean hears Sam cross the room.  “Very good, Dean.”

 

And just like that they shift, no longer brothers or simple lovers, and Dean’s nervousness twists in his stomach.  Sam moves to the nearest of the two beds, lately designated as the “sleeping bed” while the other was generally the “sex bed”. He puts a small leather duffle bag on the bed and turns to Dean.  “Are you ready?

 

Dean nods tightly, his eyes snapping to Sam’s, then away.  Sam smiles softly and crosses the room to stand in front of him.  He kisses Dean lightly, just lips on lips, tender.  “So beautiful.”  He moves behind Dean, his large hands massaging his shoulders.  “Tonight’s going to be hard for you…but I promise, it’s going to be good too.  Do you remember your word?”

 

Dean nods again and Sam squeezes tight shoulders.  “Say it.”

 

“Golden.”

 

“Good boy.”  Sam squeezes one more time, then crosses back to the bed and the bag.  “Where should we start?” He rummages around in the bag, glancing over his shoulder where Dean stands waiting, weighing the options.  

 

Dean is suddenly more aware of the room, the blue-grey carpet that doesn’t quite match the blue-green of the wall paper, the way the dark isn’t all that dark now that Sam is there with him.  Amber sunlight bleeds in through flimsy curtains and warms Dean’s bare body, adding to the flush of his arousal.  He sees Sam’s hand go still in the duffel and watches him bite his lip, his eyes growing dark.

 

“Okay. First, I’m going to use these.”

 

Sam pulls out a pair of gleaming metal cuffs and Dean’s breath hitches.  They’ve talked about this, about restraints.  He half expected them tonight, but the sight of them right there, dangling from Sam’s hands makes his heart beat faster.  He swallows, his jaw clenching.  When his eyes return to Sam’s, Sam moves a half step, dropping the hand with the cuffs.

 

“And then, I’m going to use this.”

 

Sam reaches again and lifts leather from the bag, his eyes locked on Dean’s.  It’s a whip.  A fucking whip.  A hard handle and long, soft strands of supple leather, some thick and soft, some corded and braided and Dean’s cock jerks …because Sam is going to fucking whip him.  Jesus.  

 

Sam’s stroking the damn thing with long fingers, twining them through the leather, untangling the strands, tongue darting out to wet his lips.  He moves to stand in front of Dean and trails it softly up to his thigh, moves it higher and slides the handle between his legs.  He presses it up and forward, sawing back and forth and Dean staggers up on his toes, almost falls.  His breathing reduces to sharp intakes of breath with each rub, because the corded leather has rough edges that rip through the thin skin of his cock and balls, and he’s barely being touched yet.

 

Sam pulls the whip back and Dean lets out a small sound of protest.  The tiny pains aren’t enough—not nearly—and still Dean’s harder than he’s been in a long time.

 

“Yeah. God. Okay.”  Sam’s voice is hoarse.  Dean looks up and swallows, because Sam’s eyes are almost black, and he looks like he’s about to lose it…and Dean doesn’t know exactly what emotion is in his brother’s eyes…but he can almost feel what’s coming.

 

“Lie on the bed.  On your back.  Hands above your head.”

 

For a second, nothing in the room exists except for dying light and harsh breathing.

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean grits his teeth and moves, climbs onto the bed and shivers as his fever hot back meets cool sheets.  He swallows, arranging himself slowly, reaches up and back, gripping the loop in the headboard.  The cuffs snap shut around his wrists and the sound echoes like a gunshot.  Dean feels the cold slide of the metal and his breathing becomes shallower.  _Restrained.  Danger._   He looks for Sam’s eyes, and Sam pins him with his gaze, daring him to say the word, watching.  He swallows again, and looks away.

 

Sam runs the soft strands up his leg, his thigh and Dean jerks because it tickles and it’s almost not there.  Sam moves back to strip and Dean closes his eyes, breathing; just breathing and waiting.

 

The bed dips and he feels bare skin and coarse hair, opens his eyes to see Sam straddling his thighs, and sees his brother’s cock, thick and heavy.  Sam reaches out and runs the whip over Dean’s navel, and he feels his belly clench, muscles quivering.

 

“I’ll whip you here.”  The leather strands lay across his skin, across his stomach, heavy and still.  “It’ll hurt.”  And holy fuck, but that seems to be the command for Dean’s cock to start leaking.

 

His eyes roll shut, so light headed, Dean thinks he might pass out.  A gentle hand brushes over his chest, and Sam’s voice is low, soothing.  “It’ll get bad, Dean.  And you _will_ take it.  I’ll hurt you.  And then I’ll fuck you.  Because I know it’s what you want.  It’s what you need.”

 

He feels heat over his chest as Sam leans forward, feels lips ghost over his own.  He trembles and Sam whispers. 

 

“I love you.”

 

Then Sam pulls back and Dean hears a loud crack.  It takes a second for him to register, to place the sound.  It takes a second for him to feel it.

 

His body reacts before his mind does and he lurches up off the bed, mouth open in a silent cry.  He feels the strip of fire across his stomach and his eyes fly open to see Sam already bringing the whip down for the second time.

 

Each blow is a mix of thud and thunk, and sting and fire, and it just doesn’t stop.  Over and over.  Again and again.  Across his stomach, several random strands finding their way to a sensitive nipple, or over his side. But always coming back to right there, across his stomach.  Always hard, always hot, fire, supple leather stinging, biting, dragging…until the patch of skin is raw and burning.  And still, it doesn’t stop.

 

Sam doesn’t let up, doesn’t ease off.  The pain goes from just burning to so much worse, until Dean feels like his skin is peeling off, as if each blow is taking layers of flesh with it.  Until each stroke makes his body, his limbs seize up and lock.  He bucks up, hands anchored above him and Sam’s weight pinning his legs down.

 

And all Dean is aware of is that spot on his stomach, each blow narrowing the focus of his existence, his entire universe, a little further.  He isn’t aware of his wrists wrenching against the metal, so hard he’s rubbing his own skin raw.  He’s bit his lip bloody, trying not to make a sound at first, whimpering, stifling his moans. Because even now, he’s still embarrassed to want this…to _need_ this.

 

Sam lashes him harder, fiercer, and Dean can’t help but open his mouth and scream.  Obscenities, pleas, nonsense…anything to keep from saying the one word that will make Sam stop.  He can’t help the tears, fiery hot against his face, can’t help the aching need that it brings, the burning inside of him that echoes, rivals, _enhances_ the pain.

 

And, just like when it started, it takes him a second to realize it’s stopped.  That Sam’s stopped.  He hears panting, but he doesn’t know if it’s him or Sam, and he looks up.  The whip is dangling limp in Sam’s hand and Sam is looking down at him with wide eyes, chest heaving, like he can’t believe what they’ve just done.  Like he can’t believe Dean just took it.

 

“Dean…fuck…Jesus.”

 

Dean’s eyes sink down and see Sam’s cock, red and weeping.  His lids lower further and he sees his own cock, curving up towards his raw belly.  Christ.  He’s never been so fucking hard in his life.  Sam leans to the side, frees Dean’s thighs to kneel beside him,  leaning onto his free hand braced on the mattress.  Sweat is beading on his forehead and Sam’s eyes are closed.  Dean lets his head fall back, limp, and whimpers.  “Sam, please.”

 

And he’s not really sure what he’s asking for, but his legs open of their own accord, adding invitation to plea and he arches up involuntarily, body asking for more.  Sam’s hand descends over his skin, and as hot as his stomach is, Sam’s skin is hotter, drawing a growl out of Dean before he can call it back.  “Look at me.”  Sam’s voice is deep, husky with lust and maybe a little bit of fear.   

 

It takes Dean a minute to get his eyes all the way up to Sam’s face.  Fuck.  The green of Sam’s eyes are nearly gone beneath the blown pupils, his lips rosy and red and Dean thinks maybe he wasn’t the only one biting his lips.  “Sam…god Sam, please.” His voice his hoarse and ragged.  He almost doesn’t recognize it as his own. 

 

He’s ready to beg for anything and everything, _more, god, more_ and _stop, please enough_ and he slowly becomes aware of the way he’s pulling his arms against the cuffs, how Sam’s eyes haven’t moved from his.  Dean forces his body to relax, to lay back against sheets now soaked with sweat.

 

“You are…so fucking beautiful.” Sam breathes, lifting the hand on Dean’s red belly to gently pet the angry flesh.  Sam moves to lean down and kiss it, and damn if his hand was hot, his lips are searing, and even that soft touch is too much.  Dean hisses and struggles to remain still beneath him.  Sam keeps his body arched away from the aching skin of Dean’s stomach, and Dean feels kisses travel up to his hard nipples. Feels Sam tease and lick the tight, hard nubs, easing the sting of the few lashes that found them. 

 

Sam’s moves up further, lips getting harder as they reach Dean’s mouth, nipping at the split lower lip and bringing blood back to the surface. Sam’s mouth claims his, fucking his tongue into Dean’s wet, warm mouth.  Dean relaxes further, riding the burn that’s dulling now as Sam’s attention moves to other parts of his body.

 

“Is it good, Dean?” Sam asks, his whole body hovering over Dean, and Dean can _feel_ Sam’s cock beside his own, not quite touching.  He swallows and nods, not trusting his voice.

 

“Is it enough?”

 

And that’s a whole different question.  Dean doesn’t know… Can’t say the words because it is, but it isn’t and he isn’t broken yet, but doesn’t know how to ask for what he needs.  Sam’s body is suddenly on him, _hotheatburn_ and _pressureweightpain_ , cock beside cock, and Jesus, but Dean can’t breathe. His body twitches helplessly, grating sore, bruising flesh against Sam and maybe that’s when Sam knows, because he’s gone, his weight is gone and the bed moves.  

 

“Close your eyes.” Sam orders, his voice dark and dangerous and Dean looks up at him instinctively.  The whip slaps down hard across his belly, several strands catching his cock and Dean yells, his body jerking in an attempt to escape the pain.  “Close your eyes Dean, or I’ll get the blindfold.”

 

Dean just nods again, forcing his head backwards and closing his eyes.  Sam knows how much he doesn’t like the blindfold, and he knows that Sam will use it, hell use anything, to get him where he needs to go.  “Sammy.” It’s barely a whisper. And he feels Sam between his legs, using the handle of the whip to prod them open further.  

 

“I’m not going to prep you.” Sam says as he runs his hands over the inside of Dean’s thighs, up to the base of his cock and down to his knees, bending Dean’s legs and pushing them further apart.  “I’m going to fuck you now, Dean.  I’m going to make you beg.  I’m going to give you what you need.”

 

Without warning, Sammy is doing just that, his cock pushing against Dean’s ass, shoving in hard and fast past the initial resistance, then pulling out again.  Dean’s legs tremble as Sam’s large hands grab his hips, thumbs pressing pain and fire into the welts on his skin.   He can’t help but cry out as Sam gets inside, his cock so deep that his balls are against Dean’s ass.

 

Dean’s eyes flutter open, but Sam reaches up to grip his head with a strong hand. “Keep them closed.”

 

“Please . . . want to see.”

 

“No.  This . . .” Sam slams in again and Dean arches up “This is mine.”  Sam’s hand closes around Dean’s cock, swiping across the tip, smearing pre-cum down the head.  “Mine, Dean.”

 

Fuck.  Christ.  Fuck.  Dean’s vocabulary dwindles to nonsensical words and curses.  He moans when Sam’s hand releases his cock and hisses when blunt nails scrape down over his stomach.  He feels Sam’s hand, splayed out, wide fingers pressing him back to the mattress, though he has no clue that he had arched up off of it in the first place.  Skin on skin burns so much more than should be possible, and when Sam slides his hand back and forth, creating friction, Dean’s pretty sure he’s going to fucking come.  “Sam, can’t hold…fuck…I’m going to come.”

 

Sam pulls out of him, but keeps his hand there on the tender edge of abused flesh.  “Don’t.”

 

“Sam….Sam.”  Dean’s panting, aching, afraid to move.  “I need to…can’t…”

 

“Don’t.” Sam repeats and his free hand moves between them, squeezes the base of his cock.  “Hold on, baby.  Hold on.”

 

Dean can feel eyes on him and wants to look, wants to see because he can’t read Sam’s voice when it’s like this, hasn’t learned what that hitch of breath means. But he’s burning and shaking and he knows he can’t control it, knows he’s going to break.  

 

Then Sam’s hand is gone and his cock is pushing in again, slower now, slower. Dean arches again, trying to find something to press his dick against, because now it’s a need and he can’t think beyond the _pleasurepainpleasure_.

 

The snap startles him, and he screams as leather bites into already angry-raw skin and Sam slams in, the stroke of his cock coming counterpoint to the stroke of the whip. Sam keeps it varied, keeps him guessing and on edge, not knowing what to expect next and not given a chance to brace himself…now not as hard, almost soft…now swift and cruel…and now just dragging leather across skin.

 

Dean doesn’t realize he’s still screaming until his voice breaks and the sound dies in his throat ….and it’s close. He feels it, the very edge. Where the pain becomes more than pain, where all the fucked up things bleed away and he’s connected to the hot red core of himself and he can’t face that…can’t.

 

It’s just too much. His body is seizing up, violent and out of control He’s burning all over, everywhere; ass, cock, belly, until nothing else exists.

 

Sam brings down the whip again, this time a vicious slash that feels like it’s shredding him to pieces, and he cries out before he can stop himself, follows with a whimper.

 

“Golden.”

 

Sam freezes. Everything stops, and Dean now hears sobbing, realizes it’s coming from himself. He feels the tightness throughout himself, his body an arch of tense muscle. 

 

“Dean?” Sam says softly, but it rasps across Dean’s rawness like the leather across his skin.

 

Dean half-chokes on the word, an agonized whisper. “Golden.” 

 

In the sudden silence Dean feels cold, shivers as Sam’s cock slides out of him. And he hates himself already, but he can hardly move as Sam’s hands, gentle now, slide over him, easing him, encouraging him to let his body settle back to the mattress.  “Okay, baby…okay. Easy now.”

 

Gentle kisses rain down on his skin, on the unmarked places of his body; arms and chest and forehead. “Just…Jesus. Sam…just let me…breathe.”  

 

“No, it’s okay Dean.  It’s okay.”  Sam slides around to lay beside him, his cock resting on Dean’s thigh as he wraps one large hand around Dean’s cock.  “It’s okay, come for me.”

 

Dean shudders, not really needing the encouragement, or even the stimulation.  He cries out, curling towards Sam as much as he can in the cuffs, hot cream falling against leather kissed flesh. He cries and comes and jerks against Sam’s solid body, hears soft words murmured reassuringly; easing him down and bringing him back.

 

He finally comes back to himself, and feels one of Sam’s hands cover his own in the cuffs, soothing the death grip he’s got on the metal. He feels Sam’s body warm along his side, and Sam’s nuzzling his jaw, dropping kitten-soft kisses between a murmured stream of _Dean, Dean, Dean_. He feels Sam’s cock, still hard, still hot, on his thigh and he shifts toward him. “Sam, you have to . . . .”

 

“No.” Sam pulls back to look at him and runs gentle fingers over Dean’s straining arms.

 

“I can . . . I can, Sam.” He shifts again because Sam hasn’t and he has, and this was meant to be for both of them.  “I want to . . .”

 

“Dean.” Sam twists and reaches up to undo the cuffs. “No. You used the word. This ends. Now.”

 

Dean falls back limp and let’s Sam work, eyes falling shut in exhaustion and relief and guilt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” The cuffs come loose, and Sam’s rubbing his arms down before Dean can even feel the muscles start to seize up. “I’m sorry.”

 

Sam goes still beside him and Dean looks up to see his brother staring at him, incredulous. “Dean, the number of times we’ve done this and you’ve _never_ stopped me. You wouldn’t have stopped me this time either, but . . .” He shakes his head and smoothes over Dean’s abraded wrists. “God, you’re so stupid sometimes.”

 

But Dean knows they’ve never done _this_. Never gone so far.  “I just . . . I wanted . . .”

 

Sam stops him with a kiss, lightly places the pads of his fingers over his belly. “Shut up. I’ve got cream for this.” He lifts his hand and clambers off the bed, awkwardly pulling his boxers back on, becoming all gangly and unsure. Dean watches him stumble his way to the duffel on the other bed, shifting right back into being his Sammy again. 

 

Fucked up didn’t even begin to cover it. But they either had this, fucked up as it may be, or they didn’t have it at all; and for Dean, that’s not even a choice. 

 

Then Sam pauses and looks back at him, a glimmer of what they’ve just done flashing through his eyes, making Dean go still and wait.

 

“You did good, Dean.”  
  
********************  
 

  
Additional A/N: Slight note on the BDSM. This story was originally intended to be written with Sam using a special 'flogger', not a 'whip'. Amara (who knows a little something about this stuff) informed me that thechnically a whip could not be used how it is described in this fic, and she had a particular flogger in mind that Sam could use on Dean as he does here, that sensitizes him without injuring him. Now, me (plutogirl10) being the innocent I am, simply prefer the word 'whip' better than 'flogger', so I decided to swap terms.  
  
For ppl who, like me, aren't knowledgable about this stuff, it hardly makes a difference. But for those of you you are learned in this area, I realize & acknowledge this technicality may have caused a stutter in the story flow/reality. Ummm, sorry, and keep in mind it's a particular type of flogger.   
  
luv, plutogirl & Amara. 


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